ALL YOUR PRIOR SELVES, FOLDED UP INSIDE

  Back in the day when I was teaching writing for Children's Literature at UMASS, I would ask my class, "What age do you think you are inside?"

 Some would say, "15." "12." "10." Usually not lower than ten. When I asked Patty MacLachlan her inside age, she replied, "Ten." And that is my age within as well.

  What does that actually mean? For me, it means that long-ago girl exists strongly inside, challenging assumptions, telling me to climb that high pine and rest on the far branch as the wind blows, 

showing me the magical realism of a flower picked apart, or a moth's wings and antennae so bright and real. I have different eyes when I let that 10 year-old Annie out. I feel the wind on my face like the flutter of a Monarch's wings. When I put my fingers in the garden dirt, I sense earwigs, long earthworms, tiny bacteria flitting about, and more. The earth becomes alive to me. I am living completely in the present.

When I hold out my new and unblemished hands, I dream of the things I want to make. My parents gave me a wonderful book of crafts to make which included Native American moccasins 

and an embroidered vest to make. I think I will start on the vest, knowing that the love of creation is surging within me and my fingers are itching to begin.

  At age 10, I wonder where my two brothers are. I want to play Monopoly (Sorry leads to too many fights!)

 with them on the floor, leaning close to one to feel the warmth and solidity of his body. My family wraps around me like a warm shawl, protecting me, giving me heart and solidity.

   But I can also be 14, going on a date with Billy in his Nash Rambler car to a local drive-in. We are being reckless and "bad," pouring some rum into the cokes we bought. Sitting there and sipping the drink, I am as bold and wild as the Colette I love to read.

  At 17, I am losing my virginity in my upstairs bedroom with the man I married later on, as my parents slept below.

 That bold girl was thinking, "Is this all there is? Isn't there supposed to be more?" But I learned, and that girl still loves to get it on with the man she married over 56 years ago.

 I can sweep all of those selves into a container within: the 5 year-old who was sexually abused by a teenage boy who frightened me so I did not even want his shadow outside our car to fall on me; the sister standing up for herself; a lover of men; the losing herself to God, woman; 

giving birth, mother; raising spicy, wild kids, Mom; daughter of an adored dying father; and an empty-nester now. I forgot to include the Writing Annie who was so much a part of my adult life--loving creation, frustrated at editors, and looking with wonder at my first book in my hands, "Houses For the Dead," non-fiction on death rituals,

.

 All of them are still there, as are yours. Maybe it would be fun to do something like a story-board with your young self in a bubble up on the left, older one on the right, etc. You get the picture. Maybe you will learn things about yourself then--that you are bolder than you thought, stronger and more creative, but also with wounds and vulnerability inside. 

 Try it!